


Care in Context

by infiniteeight



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bottom Phil Coulson, Consent Issues, M/M, Sex Pollen, Top Clint Barton, see notes if you want clarification on the consent issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to sex pollen, consent is not always the only issue at hand. Clint really, really wishes the Avengers understood this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care in Context

**Author's Note:**

> **Clarification of "consent issues"** : Clint is, strictly speaking, unable to consent because he is experiencing a chemical influence. Phil makes decisions about the encounter based on what he knows Clint would want and how Clint feels about similar situations, and afterwards Clint 100% endorses Phil's decision making.
> 
> Thanks: To Perpetual Motion, for betaing services. :D

Since the Avengers got together, Clint has seen some damn messy villains. He doesn't mean blood and gore messy, either. He saw plenty of _that_ before the Avengers, enough that he actually sees less of it now than he used to. No, the folks who come to the attention of a team like theirs have gotten creative, and "creative" often seems to translate to "spewing fluids everywhere". On a good day, the fluids are generated by something other than the villain's own body.

Today is not a good day.

Today is the kind of day that makes Clint wish his uniform had sleeves. Nine times out of ten, ease of movement and comfort make the lack of body armor--and coverage--worth it. But this guy is spitting _everywhere_ , and whenever his saliva (or whatever it is) makes contact with skin, his victim goes out of their mind with lust. The good news is the victims aren’t aggressive about it--push 'em away and they'll just stumble off in search of another partner. The bad news is it takes better than four hours to wear off.

Spitting Guy--he gave them a title, but damned if Clint was gonna give him that much respect--seemed to be enjoying the chaos more than anything. He'd shown up three times at large events, horking on a couple dozen people and laughing when the crowd dissolved into fucking and shouting and groaning. Fury says the Avengers were put on the case because regular law enforcement and private security alike have proven just as susceptible to the spit as anyone else. Clint's pretty sure it has more to do with the fact that the most recent event "disrupted" was a high society party hosted by a senator and attended by a who's who of the rich and powerful.

But whatever, the Avengers are on it. The sex spit is the guy's only trick, so they leave Bruce at the Tower on tech support, Thor puts his sleeves on, and Cap and Natasha watch their faces. Tony's fully covered and Clint's usually well out of the action, so they're good to go. They get the guy wrapped up, mouth clamped shut and covered for good measure, with a minimum of fuss.

At least, that's what Clint believes, right up until he realizes that no one else in the Quinjet is sweating on the way back to the tower. He does a quick inventory, but it's not until he stands to ask someone to check his back that he realizes what the problem is. The bottom of his left pant leg is damp.

"Fuck," Clint says, looking down at his pants. He tugs at his pants and the tiny motion of fabric over his groin feels a bit too good. Double fuck.

"Problem?" Steve asks. He's got the cowl pushed back and was looking pretty chill a moment, ago, but now he straightens into alertness.

"Apparently I caught some splash," Clint says, nodding down at his pant leg. He scrubs his hands over his face. "Fuck. My pants caught it, at first, but the damn stuff's soaked through the fabric to my skin and I am definitely feeling it now." He's feeling it more every second, in fact. Stay standing or sit down? Standing is going to make the hard on he's getting very obvious. Sitting down might feel just a bit too good.

"Better pick up the pace," Steve calls to Tony, who's flying the Quinjet this time around. "Clint's affected."

"Fuck," Tony growls. 

Clint sways as he feels the Quinjet pick up speed and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "So," he said. "Anyone up for a roll in the hay?"

"A roll--?" Thor starts, but Clint cuts him off.

"Roll in the hay, do the deed, dance the mattress jig, _whatever!_ " Clint snaps. "I'm gonna need to fuck real soon, so someone step up to the god damned plate." He doesn't look at Natasha. They've talked about this kind of shit, and he knows where her limits are, and she does not fuck when one party may be even slightly out of control. But he's got four other team members. Except maybe not Bruce; Clint's not sure where sex goes on the sliding scale of Hulk control.

"Clint, no," Steve says seriously. "You're under the influence, you're not thinking clearly. We can't do that to you."

His body is already ratcheting up. He's hard, now, pressing against the fly of his pants and throbbing. "Steve, I'm asking for this."

Tony calls back from the cockpit. "Trust me, Clint, you don't want to fuck when you're the next best thing to drunk."

Clint looks frantically at Thor. He opens his mouth, and what comes out is just, " _Please._ " Humiliation crawls up from his belly at the word.

But Thor shakes his head solemnly. "I will not take advantage of you while you are laid low by a villain."

"I'm not laid low!" Clint shouts. He scrubs his hands through his hair. "Fuck, guys, I am telling you that this is what I want, how hard is that to understand?"

"You don't know what you're saying," Steve says firmly.

And no matter how Clint begs, shame coiling up into a helpless lump in his belly, they won't budge. He begs and he begs and he puts his hand down his pants right there in the Quinjet and all they do is look away and, when they get to the Tower, all but carry him to his room and lock him inside. He clutches the sheets and shouts until he's hoarse, knowing they'll have a watch on the door just in case, but no one comes in to help.

It takes him a long time, his whole body throbbing even now that he's stripped himself naked, fevered need burning through his veins, to remember that his uniform has a panic button built in. It doesn't go to the team--chances are if he's in trouble, so are they--but to Coulson. Clint scrambles to the edge of the bed and leans down to fumble with his discarded clothes. He almost sobs when he finds the button, and squeezes it so hard that his knuckles ache.

*

The decontamination team and the PR team are both on site and Coulson is on his way back to SHIELD when his cell shrieks at him. He reacts on instinct, jerking the wheel of his car and cutting neatly through a lane of traffic to slide into a very illegal parking spot before he snatches up the phone to see whose alarm it is.

Clint. What the hell? The Avengers had left the site almost an hour ago, and no one else's alarm has been triggered. Coulson stabs his speed dial and interrupts the Captain's "Hello" to snap, "Where's Hawkeye?"

"He's safe, we locked him in his room," Cap says quickly. "How did you know to call?"

Locked in his room does not equal everything okay. Coulson puts the phone on speaker and slips back out into traffic, turning towards the Tower and darting through traffic. "He triggered his panic button," he tells Cap. "Fill me in."

"It's not serious," Cap insists. "Turns out he got tagged with the bad guy's spit and didn't feel it until we were on our way back. We secured him in his bedroom and we're taking watches at the door while JARVIS monitors his vital signs. He'll be all right, sir, we just have to wait it out."

Fuck. God dammit. "Is he talking?" Coulson asks tightly.

Cap pauses. "Yes, but you really don't want to hear the things he's been saying, sir."

"That tells me all I need to know," Coulson says. "Take the watch off his door. I'll be there in five minutes."

"We can't lift the watch, we need--"

"Take the watch off his fucking door!" Coulson snaps. The silence on the other end of the line is profound; Coulson doesn't snap, not at Steve. "And do it now." He stabs at the phone to close the line.

Five minutes later, Coulson stalks into the common area of the Avengers' quarters. All of them, minus Clint, are waiting for him. "After this is over," he says, "we are all going to have a very long conversation. Right now, you are to stay the hell away from Clint's quarters while I take care of him."

Steve comes to attention. "You can't go in there," he protests. "Just leave him alone."

"Is that what he said he wanted?" Coulson asks. He knows it's not.

"Coulson, he's not capable of consent right now," Tony interjects. Thor and Bruce are nodding. Natasha is silent, but she isn't meeting his eyes, either. "We can't let you go in there."

Coulson rounds on Tony. "You have known Clint for five months. I have known him for almost ten years. Don't you dare presume to know better for him than I do."

Natasha betrays herself with a tiny flinch, and the other four trade uncertain glances, which is all Coulson needs. He leaves the room, hurrying down the hall to Clint's door. It opens to his code, thank God, and he steps inside and lets it slide closed behind him.

Clint is curled up on the bed, completely naked, his skin shining with sweat, his muscles bunching and relaxing as the induced arousal wracks him. It would have been hot, except for the way he's keening in pained frustration, face wet with tears as he sobs, "Please," over and over again into the uncaring sheets. 

"Clint," Phil says.

Clint scrambles up onto his knees, wiping frantically at his cheeks. "Sir," he says hoarsely, dropping his hands to his thighs. They clench into fists, framing his flushed, jutting cock. "Please tell me you aren't going to leave me like this. Ple-"

Phil cuts him off; Clint should never beg. Never. "Do you want my help?"

" _Yes_ , Jesus fuck, how many time do I have to say it?" Clint snaps.

"Just once," Phil says, pulling his tie loose and moving towards the bed.

"Thank fucking God," Clint growls. He lunges for Phil, seizing his shirt in both hands and using it to yank Phil around and down on the bed. Phil's breath whooshes out of his lungs as his back hits the mattress hard enough to make him bounce, legs still dangling over the edge. Clint growls and drags him fully up onto the bed before swinging a leg across Phil to straddle him. He tears Phil's shirt open and swears at the undershirt he finds beneath.

"Clint," Phil says, heart pounding. Clint's expression is intent, and the muscles stand out in his arms and legs where he kneels astride Phil. He looks fierce. "Are you going to let me get my pants off?"

Clint looks down, as if only just realizing that Phil's shirt is not the only piece of clothing in the way, and swears again. He looks back at Phil. "I am not thinking clearly," he mutters, taking a long breath. "You handle your top." He flashes Phil a smirk. "I've got the bottom."

Phil snorts at the innuendo, but it sends a thrill through him, finally. Seeing Clint hurting and desperate is not arousing, but Clint smirking over stripping Phil? That's pretty potent. 

Clint opens Phil's belt and fly and hooks his fingers into his pants and underwear together, dragging them down Phil's legs until they tangle at his ankles and he has to stop, growling again, to get Phil's shoes and socks off. In the meantime, Phil pushes himself up on his elbows and struggles out of jacket, shirt, and undershirt, tossing them over the edge of the bed. 

Clint finishes with Phil's shoes and socks and strips off the tangled mess of the clothing around Phil’s ankles. Moaning in satisfaction, he runs his hands up Phil's legs, against the grain of his body hair, making Phil's skin tingle. Phil gasps in response, dropping down flat on his back.

"You like that?" Clint asks hoarsely. He crawls up over Phil and shifts his knees in between Phil's legs, nudging them apart. "You like my hands on you?"

"God, yes." Phil clenches his fists in the bed sheets. Clint's hands are rough with calluses from bow and gun. Phil can feel the strength in them, but as desperate as Clint is, that strength is still leashed, his fingers doing little more than dimpling the skin. Phil licks his lips. "You don't have to go slow."

"I want to." Clint leans down and sucks one of Phil's nipples into his mouth. Phil groans, his hand coming up to curl around the back of Clint's neck. Clint grazes the nub with his teeth before pulling back. "I want to take my time with you. To make you fall apart. But I need you so much. I don't think I can wait."

"It's good." Phil spreads his legs, his heart thundering. He laughs breathlessly. "I think you'll make me fall apart just fine, anyway."

Clint tucks his face into the curve of Phil's neck and chuckles back. "I'm sure gonna try." He kisses the skin there, slow and wet and tender, before grabbing a bottle of lube off the bedside table and sitting back on his heels. He's sloppy with the slick, getting it all over his hands and Phil's thighs, but Phil can't bring himself to care, not once Clint pushes two impatient fingers into his ass.

Groaning, Phil bites his lip and focuses on relaxing, on giving himself up to the heat crawling through his veins and letting himself open up for Clint. "God, look at you," Clint groans, working his fingers in and out of Phil. "You are so fucking hot, you're taking me so good. I can't wait to get inside you, pin you down and just fucking pound you."

Phil drops his hands to the bed again and arches his head back as he gasps and struggles to push into the twists of Clint's fingers. "Fuck," he says, panting. His feet scrabble, first bending his knees, then kicking out a leg as a bolt of sensation goes through him. "Fuck," Phil swears again. He can't figure out what to do with his legs, he wants to spread them open and draw them up toward his chest at the same time, just can't seem to settle. 

"Here," Clint says. He pulls his fingers from Phil and runs his hands down Phil's thighs until he can hook his hands under Phil's knees. Clint pulls Phil's legs up around his waist, then moves his hands down to lift Phil's hips, tipping his weight back onto his shoulders. 

"Oh," Phil groans in realization. "Yes, that'll work, that'll--" He chokes off with a short cry as Clint's cock nudges his opening and then immediately breaches him. Gasping, Phil wraps his legs around Clint's waist and clenches his hands in the sheets. Clint never stops moving, his cock steadily pushing into Phil's body, filling him with heat. "More," Phil moans.

"Yeah," Clint says breathlessly. "I got more. You just lemme give it to you, babe. I'm gonna make you feel so good."

Phil can't find the words, not with Clint buried inside him, hot and thick and pushing down deep into Phil's body, his hands gripping Phil's hips tight, holding him steady for the rolling thrusts of his hips. Instead of speaking, Phil squeezes his legs around Clint and moans when he's rewarded with a sharp, rough thrust.

There are no more words from Clint, either, after that. It isn't the position for going hard, but with his weight all on his shoulders and Clint's hands holding his hips and ass, all Phil can do is take it. Clint holds him just the way he wants him and fucks him good and deep, and Phil moans and moans and lets himself go, surrenders himself to Clint's strength and the pleasure rolling through him.

When Clint comes, his cock throbbing inside Phil, he doesn't even go soft long enough to pull out before he starts getting hard again. He sobs and withdraws from Phil anyway, carefully laying him down before collapsing on his back next to Phil and covering his face with his hands. "God, Phil, I don't want to hurt you."

Phil is suddenly very glad he hasn't come yet. He levers himself up, then scrambles over to sit astride Clint's thighs. "Clint," he says, filling his voice with warmth. "I'm far from worn out. And there's a lot more we can do."

Clint cries out when Phil wraps his hand around both their cocks. 

"A whole lot more," Phil promises, low and intense.

*

"Phil."

He's warm and covered in something soft, and his body aches pleasantly. Phil doesn't want to wake up.

"Phil, come on."

But that's Clint. Phil blinks and opens his eyes to find Clint looking at him from the other side of a pillow. There's a hickey on his throat. Phil smiles slowly as he remembers putting it there. "How're you feeling?" he asks, voice a little rough with sleep.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Clint asks, looking away.

"Why?" Phil asks, deliberately light. "I had a lot of really excellent sex. You, on the other hand, got dosed with some sort of extra-dimensional chemical."

Clint blushes. It makes Phil want to kiss him again. "I'm fine," Clint says. "It seems to have...burned off." He pauses and tentatively meets Phil's gaze. "Um. Thank you." 

Phil smiles. "My pleasure."

"Should we talk about this?" Clint asks. "It's not exactly in the handbook."

"Clint. You should know by now that I'd give you anything you needed, whenever you needed it, handbook or not."

Clint's hand comes up to touch the hickey on this throat. "Is that what this was?"

Hope flares in Phil's chest. "It's what this is right now," he says. He takes a quick, steadying breath. "It's up to you if you want it to be the start of something else, too."

A smile blooms on Clint's lips. "I want."

Relief washes through Phil. "Oh, thank God." Clint laughs and leans across the pillow to kiss Phil slowly. It's a good kiss, and Phil gives himself permission to enjoy it before he has to bring up the next thing. But eventually Clint breaks the kiss and settles back onto the pillow and Phil has to say it. "We need to talk to the rest of the Avengers."

Clint scowls and sits up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Why? My teammates would rather see me humiliated and in pain than have a little casual sex. I got _that_ message loud and clear."

Phil swallows a sigh and moves to rub Clint's back. "Are you including Natasha in that?"

"What?" Clint says, startled. He turns to look at Phil. "No, of course not. I know her history, I wouldn't ask her to do that."

"But the other Avengers don't get the same pass?" Phil asks. Clint frowns. "They have history, too, Clint." That they'd made decisions based on their own preferences instead of checking with someone who might know more about _Clint's_ was a problem they'd get into with the group.

Clint starts to speak, then closes his mouth and hangs his head. "I really don't want to have that conversation," he moans. 

"I know," Phil says, patting his shoulder. "Come on. Shower first."

Predictably, Clint makes a bid for shower sex, but Phil manages to hold out despite the depth to which he's tempted. Clint really does need to have that conversation, and if they don't get to it now, God knows if they ever will.

Considering how long he and Clint had been...engaged, Phil wouldn't have been surprised if the Avengers had dispersed. On the other hand, Tony Stark has JARVIS available, and it hadn't even occurred to Phil to ask for privacy. So he isn't entirely surprised when they emerge into the living room to find all five of Clint's teammates waiting for them. They're scattered over the couches and armchairs arranged around the TV. The two empty spaces, Phil notices, are not next to each other.

"Please tell me you guys haven't been sitting out here waiting on us this whole time," Clint says as they approach the seats. He pauses, touching Phil on the arm. Phil waits while Clint catches Natasha's eye and jerks his head toward one of the empty armchairs. She smiles and rises from the couch, reaching out to tug Bruce up with her. The two of them take the armchairs, and Clint drops down onto the couch and smiles up at Phil, patting the seat beside him. Phil sinks down to sit next to Clint; a quiet warmth blooms in his chest when Clint drapes his arm along the back of the couch, just brushing Phil's shoulders, his fingers tapping against Phil's far arm.

"No," Tony answers. "I had JARVIS keeping an eye on you. In case you needed..." he cuts his eyes towards Phil, then jerks them back to Clint, "help."

Clint glares at Tony. Clearly, he didn't miss the glance. He looks over at the other Avengers, all of them save Natasha quietly, visibly uncomfortable, none of them looking at Phil. Natasha grimaces at Clint and shrugs helplessly. Clint blows out an exasperated breath and rubs his hands over his face. "Listen," he says, slapping his palms down on his knees, "since you all seem to be laboring under the delusion that Phil is a fucking rapist--" they flinch, which makes Clint smile tightly, "--let me clear something up. Given the choice between (a) being viciously humiliated and left alone in serious fucking pain, or (b) having some casual sex with a friend, _I prefer the casual sex_." 

Now none of the Avengers can look at Clint either. Phil almost stops him--he knows more about the other Avengers' history than Clint does--but resists; if he interrupts Clint, not everything that needs to be said will be said. Clint goes on, "And, honestly, I'm wondering if I really ought to trust a bunch of people who think so little of me that they believe I'd freak out at them for helping me out when I was hurting, even if maybe I wouldn't go to bed with them otherwise."

"Excuse me for not thinking 'You seemed like you needed it,' would be an acceptable excuse in the morning," Tony snaps. "That one has been tossed at my hung-over ass a few too many times for me cough it up myself, okay?"

Clint goes still, but Bruce speaks before he can gather a response. "I lose a lot of time when I transform," he says quietly. "And I'm not the Hulk during all of it. I hope that I've just been unconscious during that time, but I'm never really sure. I didn't know how aware you really were, and having pieces of your life stolen away..." he shakes his head.

"It seemed to me your mind had been poisoned again," Thor says, meeting Clint's gaze unflinchingly. "I thought...this time, I might prevent actions you would mourn."

Clint grimaces and nods before turning to Steve. "I thought-- I want going to bed with someone to mean something," Steve says. "It's not first aid; it changes things, and I couldn't imagine making that happen without your input."

"You guys--"

"Clint," Natasha interrupts.

"Nat, I know where you--"

"I'm sorry," she breaks in again. His eyebrows go up. "I'm sorry I didn't trust what I know of you," she goes on. "I'm sorry I didn't at least call Coulson. I thought of it, but then everyone agreed and I...wasn't sure anymore. I should have known better."

"It's fine--" Clint starts, but Phil stops him with a hand on his knee. Clint looks over at him questioningly.

"Yes, you should have," Phil tells Natasha. "You've known Clint for years, you should have trusted that." He looks around at the other Avengers. "You each made your call based on your _own_ history, without thinking about what _Clint_ would want. That's the problem here, you understand?" Slowly, they all nod. Phil turns to Clint. "And you got angry based on what you'd have wanted," he says quietly, "without thinking about why they made the call they did." 

After a moment Clint nods too, and Phil lets himself relax. "Lesson learned, then," Phil declares.

Everyone is silent for a moment.

"So," Tony finally drawls, "can I ask what that's about?" He points at Phil's hand on Clint's knee.

Clint smiles suddenly. "Turns out Cap wasn't exactly wrong," he says. "Going to bed with someone does change things." He glances over at Phil. "If you want it to."

"If it's the right person," Phil adds, smiling back.

~!~


End file.
